


I Guess That's Why They Call it the Blues

by eggsbenni221



Series: The Song in My Heart [6]
Category: Bridget Jones (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Songfic, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 04:41:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20236897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: Mark flicked an imaginary speck of lint from the cuff of his sleeve and scrutinized his reflection one last time. Despite a few more lines around his mouth and more visible patches of silver threated through his dark hair, the past five years hadn’t been entirely unkind to him. She would see that, he hoped; she would see that he wasn’t broken, and yet, in the past, whenever he’d endeavored to paper over the cracks in his life and convince others, even himself, that he was fine, Bridget had still seen through the façade as no one else ever could. Film universe, Bridget Jones's Baby, before and after Daniel's memorial but before/in place of the christening. Typos are mine; don't hesitate  to point them out.





	I Guess That's Why They Call it the Blues

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 6 in a series I began last year, based on a playlist of songs I created for Mark and Bridget. 
> 
> At the point at which this story is set, Bridget and Mark don't yet know Daniel is alive. 
> 
> This plotbunny involved, in part, contriving a backstory for Camilla, about whom we know almost nothing. 
> 
> I'm not from the UK or anywhere in the EU,but as best as I can tell from research, the most plausible way for Mark and Camilla to obtain a divorce would have been by mutual agreement if they could prove they'd been living essentially apart for at least two years because other grounds for divorce would have involved adultery or abuse, neither of which Mark Darcy seems capable of. I apologize for any inaccuracies, though contriving a backstory for Camilla was primarily to provide context.

> Picture perfect memories  
Scattered all around the floor.  
Reaching for the phone cause I can’t fight it any more  
And I wonder if I ever cross your mind  
For me it happens all the time…  
Another shot of whiskey, can’t stop looking at the door.  
Wish you’d come sweepin’ in the way you did before.  
And I wonder if I ever cross your mind  
For me it happens all the time.  
It’s a quarter after one, I’m a little drunk, and I need you now.  
Said I wouldn’t call, but I lost all control, and I need you now.  
And I don’t know how I can do without, I just need you now.- Lady Antebellum, ‘Need You Now’ 

> Time on my hands could be time spent with you.  
Laughing like children  
Living like lovers  
Rolling like thunder under the covers  
And I guess that’s why they call it the blues.- Elton John, ‘I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues’ 

## The Morning of the Memorial

Mark flicked an imaginary speck of lint from the cuff of his sleeve and scrutinized his reflection one last time. Despite a few more lines around his mouth and more visible patches of silver threated through his dark hair, the past five years hadn’t been entirely unkind to him. She would see that, he hoped; she would see that he wasn’t broken, and yet, in the past, whenever he’d endeavored to paper over the cracks in his life and convince others, even himself, that he was fine, Bridget had still seen through the façade as no one else ever could. With a growl of frustration, Mark gave his reflection a defiant glare. 

“You’re doing this for closure,” he declared aloud, “not to reopen old wounds.” 

“If you’d stop licking your wounds, maybe they’d finally heal,” said a voice from the doorway. With a jolt, Mark turned from the mirror to meet the eyes of the woman who stood watching him. 

“Camilla.” 

“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“no, it’s fine. I was just. . . lost in my own thoughts. Forgive me.” 

“Are you ready?” 

Mark nodded. “Yes, but you really needn’t trouble yourself. There’s no reason for you to attend.” 

Camilla folded her arms, lips pursed as she considered him. “I don’t think you should do this alone.” 

“Camilla, I--” 

“Mark, don’t argue with me about this.” 

He sighed. “I’m not trying to argue with you. It’s just. . . it’s not necessary. We didn’t—you didn’t come here for this, not that I don’t appreciate the gesture.” 

In a kind turn of fate, several months after Mark’s split from Bridget, he had been offered a job opportunity in the Hague, where his work was heavily connected with the International Criminal Court. At the time, he had thought only of leaving England, of slashing the strings of his heart that bound him to Bridget. The weeks had turned into months, the months had stretched to a year, one year and become two, then three, and the work, as it so often had, provided Mark some form of an antidote for his pain. The other antidote, unexpectedly, had come in the form of Camilla, a locally based attorney with whom Mark frequently consulted, and they had bonded over their shared experiences in law as well as in their personal lives. 

Camilla had been born in and spent part of her childhood in London before her family had relocated to South Holland, where her mother was originally from. Despite endeavors to convince himself otherwise, Mark carried around a dull but ever-present ache of homesickness; save for the occasional trip to visit his parents, he had hardly returned to England, and Camilla provided him a tie to home to which he could cling while still maintaining a safe distance. Added to this connection was the discovery that she had sustained similar life-knocks in the relationship department, namely the unexpected breakup of her own engagement years before, a mere three weeks before the wedding. Gradually, a comfortable friendship had blossomed between them, and with their shared professional interests and career trajectories, none of their colleagues had expressed surprise when they married a year after meeting. It was, Mark knew, precisely the sort of marriage-as-merger construct that he had sought to avoid with Natasha, because his attraction to Bridget had reopened his heart to the possibility of love again until that door had been abruptly and, it seemed, resolutely shut. Now, battered and bruised as he was, he could find contentment in companionship—in a professional partnership and marriage of minds, if not of hearts. 

The arrangement had hummed along in this convenient rhythm for two years until the tempting offer of a steady stream of Supreme Court cases had lured Mark back to London, and like the distant, half-remembered echo of a well-loved song, the thrum of that great city had called him home. Even the thought of Bridget evoked only a twinge of regret where once it had caused his heart to throb. Camilla, however, well-established in her career, with a network of colleagues and a comfortable home, had no inclination to pull up her roots and start afresh; their marriage of convenience had quickly become inconvenient, and after a series of lengthy discussions, an amicable agreement to divorce had been reached. The contract terms no longer worked, so there seemed nothing left but to dissolve it. This legal, almost clinical detachment was the only rational way Mark could insulate himself against the belief that he had somehow managed to sabotage yet another relationship. 

The divorce, in fact, was the impetus for Camilla’s presence at this precise moment; they had chosen to marry in the UK, in a private civil ceremony attended only by their parents, and the cumbersome process of obtaining an international divorce together with Mark’s discreet and readily accessible network of professional contacts made initiating proceedings far less complicated in London. In yet another, more jarring diversion in Mark’s life path, the return to London had coincided with the news of Daniel’s death and the memorial service, which Camilla had, in a show of kindness for which Mark felt alternately grateful and undeserving, insisted on attending with him. 

A flash of something like anger lit Camilla’s eyes now. “Is that what you think this is? A gesture, to keep up appearances? You think I’m just playing the part of the ‘supportive wife’?” 

“That’s not what I said,” Mark replied tersely, a muscle in his jaw beginning to twitch. 

“but it’s what you meant. Why is it so impossible for you to believe that I’m supporting you because I want to?” Before he could speak, she crossed the room to stand in front of him, hands on her hips. “A divorce doesn’t operate like a switch; it doesn’t instantaneously deactivate our marriage. I still care about you, Mark, whether you want to believe it or not. You think that the moment we decided to start divorce proceedings, we stamped some sort of contractual expiration date on our marriage, and however technically true that might be on paper, relationships—feelings—they don’t operate that way.” 

Mark took a slow, calming breath before responding. “I realize that.” 

“I’m not sure you do, because when you care about someone—and I do care about you, Mark—you care because you choose to care, not because you’re obligated to care.” 

“I know,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean to delegitimate or belittle your kindness; it’s certainly more than I deserve, but truly, you don’t need to do this.” 

“Well, neither do you, really, when you come to the point.” 

“Camilla, we’ve been through this. It’s only right that I. . . pay my respects.” 

“I didn’t know Daniel, but based on what you’ve told me, respect wasn’t precisely one of the pillars of your friendship.” When he said nothing, she rested a hand on his arm. “Mark, is this about Daniel, or about Bridget?” 

“This has nothing to do with Bridget,” he protested. 

Camilla shrugged. “Tell yourself that, if it makes you feel better.” Mark’s gaze slid from hers as his thoughts turned inward. Where was she now? Was she alone? How he longed to hold her now, but had he the right to reach for her, to even acknowledge his yearning to do so when he’d pushed her away? Whatever Daniel’s faults, he had, in his own way, loved Bridget, and the sudden, disorienting rush of loss and regret that had overwhelmed Mark upon learning of Daniel’s death could be little more than a trickle when compared with the tidal-wave of grief that Bridget was battling. Yet she would battle it, Mark was certain, because if anyone knew how to gather up the remnants of a broken life and piece them back together, Bridget did. 

“She’s fine,” he whispered finally. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. She can look after herself.” Camilla studied him for a moment; then, stepping closer, she reached out and gently laid her palm against his cheek. 

“Mark, please let me go with you. I don’t care what your motives are; Go for Bridget. Go for Daniel. Go for yourself, but please, don’t go alone.” Mark swallowed; closed his eyes; allowed himself to lean into her touch for a moment. Then, with a deep breath, he opened his eyes and looked back at her. 

“All right,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Thank you.” 

## Same Day, Evening

A dribble of wine splashed into Bridget’s lap as she absently raised the hand holding her still half-full glass to brush at the tears sliding down her face. Her other hand pressed the phone to her ear, and she endeavored to catch Tom’s words over her alternating sniffles and hiccups. 

“Bridge, honey, it’s going to be okay. I know it doesn’t feel that way right now, but it will, and I’m really, really proud of you.” 

“For what?” 

“For doing what you had to do. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think.” 

“Are you insane? It was awful! Losing Daniel was bad enough; being put on the spot by his mum like that, well, I can’t say I didn’t expect it, but to stand up there and try to hold myself together, and have Mark Darcy witness the entire ordeal? Haven’t I been through enough?” 

“Well,” said Tom, “he always knew you were an appallingly bad public speaker.” 

Bridget made a sound midway between a giggle and a hiccup and took another swig of wine. “It might not have been so bad if he’d been on his own,” she said. “I mean, I was surprised to see him there, given his history with Daniel, but it’s just the sort of upright, perfect-pants, moral high ground sort of thing Mark would do. He’d feel it his personal duty to hold together the moral fabric of gentlemanly, English breeding or something and ‘pay his respects’, but to make a complete arsse of myself in front of his wife—if I could have dug a hole in the earth and crawled into it right there, in front of everyone, I’d have done it and never come out.” 

“But you didn’t,” replied tom, “and you’re not giving yourself enough credit for that.” 

“I suppose, and I might have been able to live with it if we hadn’t bumped into each other afterward, but I had to face him—had to be introduced to his wife as an ‘old friend’!” 

“Come on, Bridgelene, give Mark a bit of credit; quite honestly, it was the least he could have done to spare your feelings, and it must have been just as awkward for him as it was for you.” 

“It was one of the most humiliating moments in my entire life!” 

“Worse than being caught climbing up a fireman’s pole on national television?” 

“Tom! You’re not helping!” 

“I’m sorry, Bridge, but think about it. What exactly was he supposed to say? ‘Bridget, I’d like you to meet my wife, Camilla. Camilla, this is Bridget; Bridget is my former fiance whom I decided not to marry for complicated personal reasons, namely that I’m a commitment-phobic, asexual moron with the emotional intelligence of a goldfish.’” 

In spite of herself, Bridget giggled. “I suppose you’re right.” 

“And to be fair,” continued Tom, “he had to have felt a bit self-conscious as well, being there.” 

“That’s true. I mean, he was one of the only people in the room who was A: not a woman and B: over the age of 12.” 

“That wasn’t what I was referring to, Bridge, and you know it.” 

“I know.” Bridget took another swig of wine and tucked her legs beneath her. “I wondered about that. He had to have known I’d be there. I was sort of proud of him, actually, though maybe I didn’t think about it at the time. I wish—” she swallowed and swiped at a fresh flow of tears. “I wish Daniel could have known, somehow. It would have meant a lot to him, I think, to know that maybe, underneath all of that anger and resentment, Mark still cared enough about their friendship to try to make things right in the only way he could. I don’t know if he was there because he wanted to forgive Daniel or if he was trying to forgive himself, but that wouldn’t have mattered to Daniel. He’d have appreciated it either way.” 

“Bridge, hon, you know what you’ve got to do now, don’t you?” 

“Finish this bottle of chardonnay and spectacularly kick off a backward, downward spiral from non-smoking and work my way through an entire pack of silk cut?” 

Tom sighed. “You need to talk to him, Bridge.” 

“Great. Lovely. I’ll call Jude and Shaz to come round, we’ll all get squiffy and have a séance.” 

“Not Daniel, you ninny! You need to talk to Mark!” Bridget remained silent for several seconds, digesting tom’s words. Finally, after refilling her wine glass and taking another swallow to fortify herself, she spoke. 

“That. . . probably isn’t a good idea. I mean, it’s been five years, and what about the whole concept of ‘detaching’? Remember what it said in **Women who Love Too Much**? don’t call; don’t wish them well. Just. . . detach. It’s taken me five fucking years to detach, tom. I’m not going through that again. I’m finished. I haven’t even thought about Mark in ages—or what he’s doing, or where he’s been, or how much I miss him. Not until he turned up at the memorial today like the fucking ghost of relationship past. What was he thinking, anyway, turning up like that? Did he even think about how that might make me feel? Bastard!” 

“Oh, honey.” Tom spoke gently, and she buried her head in the sofa cushions, no longer bothering to brush away her tears. 

“I can’t get involved with him again. He’s married.” 

“Talking to him and sleeping with him aren’t the same thing, little mis knickers-on-fire.” Bridget managed a shaky laugh. “There’s no rule that says you can’t talk to him, and really, I think it would be good for both of you. I know how devastating it’s been for you, losing Daniel, but to be fair, it must be difficult for Mark too. He turned up today for a reason, and whatever that reason was, being there, remembering Daniel, then seeing you must have been quite a lot of emotion to process for a man whose ability to process emotions is somewhere on a level with an android.” 

“That’s a bit unfair, tom.” 

“perhaps, but my point is that whatever emotionally drunk rollercoaster ride you’re on right now, Mark is probably there as well. I’m just telling you to think about it, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“Good. Chin up, ducky. Let me know how it turns out, and remember to use protection.” 

“Tom! I’m not going to bloody sleep with him!” 

“Of course you’re not. Love you, Bridgelene.” 

“Love you too, Tom!” 

Tom’s suggestion was ludicrous, of course; she couldn’t call him. It would unravel all the threads of her life that she’d taken the past five years to pull together. Still, she kept flashing back to the moment they’d parted after their brief encounter—the way his eyes seemed fixed on her, as if by some gravitational pull. Other, similar images began to play in her mind like a film reel: the way he’d looked at her on the night of the blue soup birthday fiasco, for instance, his eyes full of genuine warmth that brought a hint of color to her cheeks and made her feel as if she’d just swallowed hot chocolate while Tom, Jude, and Sharon all sat there grinning smugly at each other. She’d tried, when she thought of it at all, even before their split, not to think about the look in his eyes when they’d first kissed unless she was sitting down. She’d wondered dimly why he thought it necessary to wrap his coat around her; if she had felt the cold, she’d have warmed up quickly enough what with her knickers being on fire. Thinking about it now, alone in her flat without anyone to scold her for picking at her wounds, she admitted to herself that what she most missed about Mark was the way he always looked at her—the way his eyes never seemed to stop following her, as if she were the focal point of his universe. She couldn’t call him; she wouldn’t call him. It was madness. She’d promised Tom to think about it, though, and she would, but first, she thought, reaching for the chardonnay, she was going to have another drink. 

* * *

Mark slumped on the sofa and leaned his head on his hand, struggling against the weight of exhaustion that threatened to close his eyes as he squinted at the papers in his lap. He could hardly decipher a word through his increasingly blurred vision, but if he closed his eyes now, he knew what he would see. How, he wondered, could a heart that had taken so many relentless life-pummels still feel pain? Because when he’d looked up during the memorial service, when he’d seen that look on Bridget’s face, that mixture of distress and determination to hold herself together, his heart had throbbed so painfully that for a moment, he’d been unable to breathe. Crossing paths with her after the service had been, not to put too fine a point on it, bloody agony. He knew he deserved little if any sympathy, given that he was primarily responsible for the tension. Had he been less foolish, he might have been standing beside her instead of gazing at her from across the gulf of time and distance that lay between them. He might have been able to tell her, as he so longed to do, how proud he was of her—that however much Daniel’s death had sent her world reeling, however unsteady she had felt, he had never wanted to lean on her strength more than he did in that moment. Camilla had said little after the service, apart from a few carefully-chosen comments. 

“so, that’s Bridget.” He’d nodded, keeping pace beside her as they walked, but deliberately not making eye contact. “She seemed really sweet.” Again, he’d given only a nod. “Public speaking doesn’t quite seem to be her forte.” 

Here Mark had tried and failed to prevent the corners of his mouth twitching. “Daniel once actually described her public speaking abilities as ‘oratory fireworks’.” 

“Maybe, but she seems like the sort of person who speaks what’s really on her heart.” At this comment, Mark had finally turned to meet Camilla’s eyes. 

“Yes.” 

Now, the brush of Camilla’s fingers across his shoulder pulled Mark back to his surroundings. Glancing up, he smiled as she extended her other hand toward him. 

“I thought you could use this.” 

“You weren’t wrong,” said Mark, accepting the glass of whiskey she held before removing his papers to a nearby table and gesturing for her to sit beside him. Camilla nodded, held up a finger, and after briefly quitting the room, returned with her own drink in one hand and the open whiskey bottle in the other. Mark hadn’t realized his need for an emotional anesthetic had been that glaringly obvious, but he refrained from commenting. For a few minutes, there was no sound except the clink of ice in their glasses. Finally, after a fortifying swallow, Mark set down his drink and turned to face her. 

“Thank you, again,” he said. “For today, I mean. It was. . . well, I appreciated having you there with me.” 

Camilla lifted a brow and took a sip of her own drink. “Did you? I’d have thought, given what happened, that you’d have wished me anywhere else.” 

“It was a convenient excuse to make a quick escape.” 

“I’ve always liked that about you, Mark—your blunt honesty.” 

He winced. “That wasn’t what I meant, precisely. Jesus, that came out wrong.” 

“It’s fine.” Camilla patted his knee. “I know what you meant, and I understand, really. It couldn’t have been easy for either of you, with me getting in the way. I suppose I should have considered that before I insisted on accompanying you.” 

“It’s all right.” 

“If you’ll forgive me for mentioning it, you circumvented the awkwardness as adroitly as anyone might have expected under the circumstances. ‘Old friend,’” she added, an amused glint in her eye. 

Mark struggled to tamp down a rising sense of frustration (and embarrassment). “For Christ’s sake, what would you have had me say? ‘Bridget, this is Camilla. Camilla is one of my work colleagues and my soon-to-be ex-wife. Camilla, this is Bridget. Bridget works in television and used to be engaged to me, but we ended things because I’m a fucking idiot.’” 

“Well, perhaps not.” Camilla laughed, evoking the barest hint of a smile from Mark as well as his words reminded him vividly of the Kafka’s Motorbike encounter, and before he could stop himself, he was regaling Camilla with the story, from Bridget fumbling a question from Salman Rushdie and asking the direction of the toilets to the imagined microphone failure and subsequent oratory embarrassment. Camilla drummed her fingertips against the edge of her glass as she listened, a crease between her brows. 

“You really love her,” she said finally. 

“At what point did I say anything even remotely indicating that?” 

Camilla rolled her eyes. “Mark, you didn’t need to say it. I was watching you just now, as you were telling that story, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that, in all the years I’ve known you.” Mark closed his eyes and took a deep breath before knocking back the remainder of his drink. He lowered his head into his hands, allowing the whiskey to burn away the painful lump in his throat. Camilla rested a hand on his back, and he cursed the tears that pricked his eyes at the warmth of her touch. Camilla hadn’t loved him, but she had cared for him; she had stood by him as a friend, and later as a wife, providing a soothing accompaniment to his droning existence of a life. Was he wrong, he wondered, to long for the embrace of a woman who no longer wished to hold him rather than the hand of one who had reached out to him when he needed comfort most? 

“Camilla,” he said, lifting his head finally, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I haven’t been the husband you deserved.” Camilla sat silently for several moments, massaging the ache between his shoulders. 

Finally, she said, “I’m not sorry at all, actually. We were both transparent about what we needed from this marriage, and you know, it might sound strange, but I think it’s served its purpose for us. We both needed a friend—someone who could teach us how to trust again. You did that for me, Mark. My fiance promised to love me faithfully to the end of his days and decided to jump into bed with someone else three weeks before the wedding. You pledged yourself to me without loving me, and you’ve done your best to honor that promise.” 

Mark offered a sad smile. “It’s kind of you to say so, but considering my desire to return to London is the reason we’re sitting here now, having this conversation, I don’t think it’s quite fair to say I’ve held up my end of the bargain. I could have stayed.” 

“And I could have come with you,” Camilla countered. “We can sit here shifting the burden of responsibility from one to the other of us all night, Mark, but it’s not going to alter the end result.” 

“Love isn’t something you feel,” Mark murmured, “but something you decide to do.” 

Camilla frowned, eyeing his near-empty whiskey glass. “You might want to pace yourself.” 

“No, no,” he said hastily. “It’s something I read. **The Road Less Traveled**. Bridget was always spouting off these nuggets of wisdom; she’d concocted this elaborate theory of self-help as religion, and I thought it was a bit mad, frankly, but then, after we. . . ended things, I had a look at some of it, and I could sort of see her perspective. Perhaps it only makes sense now, at a distance.” 

“Or when you’ve been drinking,” said Camilla. 

“Very probably,” he agreed, laughing in spite of himself. 

“So, then, what are you going to decide to do? I’m sure you noticed this, but Bridget seemed to be on her own, when we ran into her after the memorial.” 

“well, obviously. Turning up to the memorial with a date wouldn’t precisely have conveyed the appropriate image of the grieving partner.” 

Camilla heaved an exasperated sigh. “Your Cambridge education is really living up to its expectations. That’s not what I meant, and you know it. When she was speaking about Daniel in front of everyone, she didn’t sound to me as if she were speaking about her partner. It sounded more to me as if she were speaking about a friend.” Instead of answering, Mark refilled his drink, resisting the temptation to down the entire contents in a single shot. 

“Mark,” Camilla said gently, “look at it this way. Whatever there was between Bridget and Daniel, it’s glaringly obvious how much his death is affecting her. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps you’re the only person who can truly understand what she’s feeling? Even if they were together, why does it matter now?” 

“It matters,” said Mark, “because I was never able to give her what she needed. She made that perfectly clear when she chose Daniel. In the end, he was there for her, and I wasn’t.” 

“But you could be. Maybe you’re being given another chance. Maybe you’re being given an opportunity to make a new start.” Her words dislodged a memory that Mark had carefully submerged: Bridget’s bare legs wrapped around his waist, their mouths locked together in what some might chastely call a kiss but felt more like a force of nature, turning his entire world on its head. He dimly recalled, after a moment, or two, or ten, breaking off the kiss and registering surprise that he was still standing on solid ground. With an effort, he shook himself free of the memory, refusing to allow its tendrils to further ensnare him in the recollections from which he’d labored so long to free himself. He turned back to Camilla, who sat with her chin in her hands as she regarded him. 

“You said something just now,” she remarked, “about love being a choice—something you decide to do, and right now, you have a choice.” Mark closed his eyes and rubbed at the dull ache in his temples. 

“this isn’t about my choice anymore. It’s about Bridget’s.” 

“Well then,” Camilla challenged. “Give her the chance to choose.” When Mark remained silent, she shrugged, picked up her empty glass, and stood. “I think I’ll call it a night. Will you be all right?” 

Mark nodded, gesturing toward the papers he’d abandoned earlier. “Yes, I’ll just. . . finish up here.” As Camilla turned to leave the room, he reached out and took her hand, holding it for a moment between both of his own. His throat tightened as he searched for words. 

“It’s okay, Mark,” she said gently, giving his hand a brief squeeze; then she leaned in and pecked him on the cheek. “Just think about what I said.” As Mark shoved aside his papers a second time and reached for the whiskey, he suspected he wouldn’t be doing much thinking tonight. 

## The Morning After the Memorial

Bridget buried her head beneath the duvet as the alarm clock’s shrill greeting pierced her eardrums. Swiping out a hand to silence it, she swore, for perhaps the trilliant time, that she would never, never, never drink again for the rest of her life. Still, she supposed dissecting her relationship with her ex after attending the memorial service of another ex did constitute an emergency that rendered drinking a life-saving course of action. Pain relief was critical in treating trauma, after all. Still, she prayed fervently to whatever deity might be listening that she could sit through the morning meeting in relative silence because she suspected that she had approximately the same chance of being sick if she opened her mouth as she did of being shouted at by Richard Finch for talking with Miranda between the bongs. With a groan, she dragged herself out of bed and toward the bathroom, stumbling through her morning ablutions quickly enough to give her time to stop off at Coins for a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant. 

* * *

Mark woke slowly, struggling against the fog that obscured his brain and keeping his eyes resolutely closed against the fist that seemed to be repeatedly pummeling his skull. Rolling to his side, he reached automatically for his mobile on the bedside table and swore as his elbow collided with an object that should not have been there. As he opened his eyes, the room slowly came into focus, and he realized that he was not, as he supposed, lying in bed, but on the sofa, still in yesterday’s clothes. A near-tumble to the floor had resulted in a collision with the coffee table, not the bedside table. Spotting his mobile resting beside his empty glass, Mark’s stomach gave a sickening roll that had little to do with the whiskey bottle that seemed mysteriously and alarmingly low in its contents. He recalled his conversation with Camilla and, after uttering a silent prayer, scrolled through his recent history of outbound calls, slumping, weak with relief, against the arm of the sofa when he confirmed that he hadn’t rung Bridget. Still, he cursed himself for not deleting her number from his list of contacts which, by definition, should contain only individuals he in fact intended to contact. 

Wincing, he sat up and massaged his temples as he ran through the day’s agenda. He had a meeting with a client at 10.00, followed immediately by the appointment he and Camilla had arranged with the divorce lawyer Jeremy had recommended. The time on his mobile registered 7.30; Camilla would be up before long, if she wasn’t already, and rather than risk the humiliation of facing her in a state of drunken disarray, Mark rose from the sofa, swearing through gritted teeth as his head threatened to split in two. Caffeine would be non-negotiable, though in his current condition, if he committed an act he might later regret, he suspected he could get himself off on a plea of diminished responsibility. Still, he thought, rummaging blindly in the bathroom for adequate pain relief, it was best not to take that risk. 

* * *

Bridget fidgeted in the queue at the takeaway counter in Coins, tapping her foot and swearing under her breath, neither of which had any impact on the speed at which the queue was moving but seemed to alleviate some of her nervous tension. A ping from her mobile alerted her to a text, which transpired to be from Tom. 

‘How’s your head this morning?’ 

‘Bloody agony,’ she texted back, grimacing. She was just on the point of slipping the phone back into her handbag when she froze at an unmistakably familiar voice from the direction of the café doors, apparently winding down a phone conversation. 

“Yes, of course. . . No, that should allow plenty of time. I appreciate it. Yes, we’ll see you this afternoon.” 

Bridget’s mobile, still clutched in her hand, slipped from her now limp fingers and clattered to the floor, skittering a short distance away to land, as if by divine intervention, at the feet of the speaker who had come to stand several places behind her in the queue. Before she could scrabble to retrieve it, another hand did so for her, and as she straightened, she found herself staring into a pair of deep, brown eyes she never imagined would gaze at her with such transfixed intensity ever again, let alone twice in as many days. 

“I believe this is yours? I--” He paused mid-sentence as recognition crashed into him, apparently spinning his thoughts out of control. “Bridget,” he said finally.” He was standing so close; the cuff of his suit-jacket sleeve brushed her hand as he extended the phone toward her. When she breathed, she inhaled his scent—the fresh, pine fragrance of his aftershave, and her mind tumbled backward to land, bruised and disoriented, on the memory of the first time they’d decorated a Christmas tree together. The muscles in her legs suddenly felt as though they’d taken on the consistency of over-cooked pasta. Briefly closing her eyes, she took a cautious step back to give herself room to breathe, apparently with less poise than she had intended, for the next moment his hand held her firmly below the elbow and steered her away from the queue. She allowed herself to be guided to a table and made to sit. He crouched in front of her now, taking her hands in both of his, and the electric shock she experienced as their skins made contact jolted her back to awareness. 

“Bridget,” he said gently, “are you all right?” 

She nodded, feeling her cheeks turn crimson. “Yes, sorry. Oh, um, hi, by the way.” Glancing down and realizing he was still holding her hands, Mark gently released his grasp and straightened before replying. 

”I’m terribly sorry if I startled you.” 

“Oh, that.” Bridget felt her face begin to burn now and wondered vaguely whether steam might begin to issue from her ears. “It wasn’t you. I mean, I’m surprised to see you here, but I was just, well, I’m a bit. . . hung over, actually.” 

Mark gave her a half-smile in return. “You’re not alone.” Studying him more closely, Bridget observed the shadows beneath his eyes and the hastily secured, uncharacteristically loose knot in his tie that on anyone else might have gone unnoticed but looked somehow disheveled on Mark Darcy. 

“I really am sorry for catching you unawares,” he said. 

“It’s okay, honestly.” 

“Still, let me make it up to you. Hang on.” He disappeared, leaving Bridget to wonder whether she should slink away unobserved or swallow her humiliation with the well-deserve cappuccino she’d come here for in the first place. Resorting to her default option in these scenarios, she scooped up her mobile, which Mark had left on the table beside her handbag, and texted Tom. 

‘Emergency. Have just run into Mark Darcy in Coins. Help.’ 

A moment later, the phone buzzed with Tom’s reply. ‘Afraid I can’t, honey. This situation doesn’t seem to require my help, unless you’re suggesting a threesome.’ In the midst of texting back, Bridget glanced up to find Mark making his way back toward her, and just in time, she shoved the mobile into her handbag. 

“You’re cappuccino, madam,” he said, handing it to her, “and a chocolate croissant.” 

In spite of her nerves, Bridget offered him a grateful smile. “You remembered.” 

He shrugged. “Of course.” 

“That’s very sweet of you, but it wasn’t necessary. I appreciate it though,” she added, inhaling the fragrance of her morning elixir.

“So, how are you?” Mark asked. “After, well, you know. . .” He punctuated his statement with another shrug. 

“I’m okay. Well, no,” she amended when he lifted a brow in polite skepticism. “I feel like shit, really, and I’m not referring to the hangover.” 

“No,” murmured Mark. “I didn’t think you were.” 

“I was surprised to see you there. I didn’t realize you were in London.” 

“yes.” 

“And, um, how long are you here for? You didn’t just come all this way for the memorial, I’m guessing. Is it work?” 

“Partly, yes. It’s. . . I’m. . . staying indefinitely.” Mark hesitated, lowering his eyes. Bridget saw him glance at his watch, and she could feel the conversational crack between them beginning to close as he fumbled for some excuse—court, a client, a meeting. She had a sudden, wild urge to leap forward toward him, like shoving a foot into a door crack to prevent it slamming shut, but Mark was speaking again. 

“It’s rather a complicated story, but I haven’t time to go into it now; I’m supposed to be meeting a client, but actually. . .” He hesitated again. “I was wondering, do you think we could—that is—would you like to meet for a drink?” Bridget sent a silent prayer of thanks to God and his hosts of beard-trimmers and cloud attendants that she’d set down her cappuccino as Mark posed his question; she suspected that dropping it at his feet and spoiling a pair of shoes that looked as if they cost more than the mortgage on her flat didn’t seem like the sort of thing a poised ice-queen would do. 

“I’ll understand,” Mark continued in a rush, “if you’d rather not. It’s only, well, I thought, after yesterday, we might—that is, it might be nice to, um, reconnect. . . more than nice, actually.” Bridget thought of her promise to Tom; she thought of Daniel; she thought of how, as Mark had strode away from her the day before, she’d had to summon every ounce of willpower she possessed not to run after him and throw herself into his arms. The shattering, disorienting shock of losing Daniel had cracked the ground beneath her, and in that instant, she’d longed to rest her head against Mark’s shoulder, conveniently forgetting the litany of reasons why she could no longer rely on its strength. Now, as she stood silently before him, Mark dropped his gaze, but not before she glimpsed a pleading look in his dark eyes, like a Labrador puppy begging for a cuddle. 

“I’d like that,” she said quietly. Mark lifted his eyes to meet hers, and his expression relaxed into a smile that warmed her more than the cappuccino had done. 

“right. Great. Well. . .” He glanced at his watch again. “I really must go, and I’m sure you have very busy and important things to be getting on with in the world of current events.” 

“What? Oh, right, yes. Work.” They arranged to touch base and firm up their plans before parting, and Bridget left the café feeling, if possible, even dizzier than when she’d first woken up to a hangover. 

## The Friday Evening After the Memorial

Mark sat at a corner table in the bar—the most secluded spot it was possible to find on a Friday evening. Even though it was nearing 7.30, he’d come to meet Bridget straight from work, and with his suit jacket slung over the back of his chair and the sleeves of his dress-shirt rolled back to the elbows, he cut a perfect picture of casual elegance that contrasted sharply with the knots in his stomach that scotch had so far done little to loosen. More to occupy his hands than through any desire to pass the time productively, he withdrew his mobile and began idly sorting through old emails he no longer needed to save until he glanced up and smiled automatically at the sight of Bridget approaching. She’d opted for a look that struck a balance between dressy and casual—a pair of black jeans and a silk blouse the same shade as her eyes that advertised the merest hint of cleavage. A matching jacket was draped over her arm, and her hair fell loosely to her shoulders in soft waves that appeared effortlessly elegant but which Mark suspected had required a complicated preening ritual in front of the mirror involving a ridiculously high-voltage hairdryer. Even with the added inch or two in height lent by a pair of black pumps, Mark knew that if he took her into his arms, her head would rest perfectly against his chest. He rose from his seat as she drew near, pocketing his mobile and pressing her hand between both of his own. 

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” she said hurriedly. 

“Not at all. I was early.” 

Bridget laughed as she hung her jacket over her chair, and when she spoke, her voice had lost some of its anxious breathiness. “I figured as much.” 

“I’m glad we could do this,” said Mark once she’d ordered a glass of chardonnay and was settled across from him. 

“Me too. It’s. . . good to see you.” 

“And you. How have you been? You look really well.” Bridget blushed. To hide her confusion, she reached for her handbag, but suddenly drew back, looking if possible more embarrassed. 

“Something wrong?” Mark inquired, wondering if he’d come on a bit too strong. 

“What? Oh, no, no.” Bridget hastily manufactured a bright smile. “It’s just, I’ve given up smoking, and even though it’s been ages, every time I have a glass of wine, I still automatically reach for the silk cut. I’m like the nicotine addict of Pavlov’s dog.” 

Mark chuckled. “How long has it been?” 

“691 days. . . approximately.” 

“Not that you’re counting,” he quipped, lifting a brow. 

“No, of course not.” They fell silent. Mouth suddenly dry, Mark took a swallow of scotch before speaking again. 

“So, how’s work?” 

Bridget shrugged. “Oh, you know, super. I’m still getting told off for talking between the bongs; social media and trending Twitter topics have totally redefined the concept of newsworthy journalism, but it’s all great. Never mind the Syrian refugee crisis, or climate change, or the fact that the earth is shrinking by one centimeter a year.” 

To his credit, Mark maintained a neutral expression. “Is the earth shrinking by one centimeter a year?” 

“Well, if it is, no one would notice. Apparently people are more interested in flashy headlines about why their kitchen appliances will give them terminal cancer or staring at pictures on the internet of cats that look like Hitler.” 

“I’m. . . sorry?” Mark frowned. “Cats that look like. . .” 

“Hitler. Hitler cats.” 

“Um. . . right. I think it’s safer if I don’t ask.” 

Bridget nodded. “Probably best. How are things with you? Work still keeping you busy, I suppose?” 

“Yes, you know, the usual; Middle-Eastern subterfuge, working against the clock to free political prisoners from certain death, defending the free speech rights of foreign girl bands who name themselves after parts of the female anatomy and sound rather like angry cats caught in a sewer. . . or perhaps a Hitler cat.” 

“Um, should I ask?” 

“I’d strongly advise against it.” Mark’s lips twitched a smile; Bridget gave a nervous giggle, and the next moment, they were laughing, their amusement hilariously disproportionate in relation to the situation. Eventually, once their laughter had subsided, Bridget took a fortifying gulp of wine. 

“Mark, listen.” She hesitated, toying with the stem of her wine glass. “It wasn’t easy for me, coming here tonight. I mean, don’t misunderstand me; it’s really, really lovely seeing you again, and I’m glad I did, but it wasn’t easy. Running into you at the memorial was a bit of a shock. I had no idea you’d turn up—no idea you were even in the country, and coming on top of all the other feelings I was sorting through, well. . .” She punctuated her unfinished sentence with a shrug. 

Mostly to give himself time to compose his thoughts, Mark took another sip of his own drink. “I’m sorry, Bridget,” he murmured eventually, wondering if the vague buzzing beginning at the back of his brain was the effect of the scotch or of looking directly into her eyes. “Of course I should have considered how my being there would have made you feel; I confess, I did consider it, and I was selfish not to take that into account.” 

“Why did you go, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

He sighed. “Several reasons. It seemed only right to pay my respects, and I suppose, in spite of everything, I felt I owed Daniel that much. Perhaps it was a way of putting the past to rest, but it wasn’t only that. I suppose you’d think I’ve relinquished any claim to such an interest, but the truth is, I wanted—I needed to see if you were all right.” 

Bridget smiled sadly. “Well, I am, or rather, I’m not, not yet, but I’m getting there. I loved Daniel. In spite of everything, as you say, I loved him. It was a bit like having a puppy sometimes. One moment he was infuriating me by turning my life upside-down, and the next moment I was forgiving him because he’d somehow made it impossible for me to remember why I’d been angry with him in the first place. In the end, I think, underneath all the fuckwittage and commitment-phobia, he just wanted really desperately to be loved.” Tears glistened in her eyes as she spoke, and Mark felt his own eyes begin to moisten. 

“I think you’re right,” he said gently, “but you were always better at realizing that than I was.” 

“I’m going to miss him,” she continued. “I miss him already, knowing that I’ll never hear his voice again asking me what color knickers I have on, or teasing me about knowing where Germany is, or asking if he could take my skirt out for dinner.” She paused, swiped at a tear trickling down her cheek, then went on. “He could be a complete arsse sometimes, I know.” 

“I think you and I know that better than anyone else,” Mark commented dryly. 

Bridget nodded. “But the thing is, he was also just really, really fun. He made me laugh, and after you—after we split up, he and I sort of figured out how to just be friends, and it worked, and he was there for me. For Christ’s sake,” she sniffled, again swiping angrily at her tears. “I’m rambling, but what I mean is, it’s perfectly find trying to put up a brave front, being all Zen-like about it and saying you’re just going to stand like a great tree in the midst of it all, but you have to grow to that point. You have to acknowledge the pain; you have to allow yourself to feel, because otherwise you’re just ignoring it, and instead of growing from that experience, you sort of crumble slowly from within until there’s nothing left.” 

“Bridget, look.” Mark hesitated, the words catching in his throat. Inhaling deeply, he downed the remainder of his drink, swallowed, and began again. “I’m sorry, Bridget. I’m sorry for the way I ended things; I’m sorry for not being there enough for you—for thinking it was enough that I loved you—that you knew I loved you, and that because you knew, I didn’t have to try.” 

“I understood what you were feeling,” said Bridget. “I understood how you could have had a kneejerk reaction like that, seeing me with Daniel that night, but we could have talked about it. We could have worked through it, because if we had, you would have understood what I was feeling as well, and maybe we could have got past it, but you just put up this wall, and I couldn’t get past that. I didn’t go back to Daniel, not in the way you thought—not then, not ever. I had a hard enough time extricating myself once to know not to get tangled up in a mess with him again.” 

“I know that now, of course,” he said. “The truth is, it wasn’t about you; it wasn’t about what you’d done, or what Daniel had done. It was about what I hadn’t done. In that moment, all I knew was that Daniel had been there for you, and I hadn’t. I didn’t blame you for what happened that night.” 

“No,” said Bridget. “You blamed Daniel.” 

“Only because it was easier to blame Daniel than to blame myself, but believe me when I tell you I’ve done my fair share of that ever since. I suppose that’s another reason why I felt the need to attend the memorial. It was the only way I could atone for my mistake, because for once in his life, Daniel had actually proven himself to be a better man than I’d given him credit for being.” 

“I think he’d have forgiven you,” she mused. 

“I have grave doubts about that,” replied Mark. 

“Well, maybe not at first; at first he wanted to beat you to a pulp. When you didn’t turn up at the award ceremony, he was ready to whip out the dueling pistols, but I think even he realized that your reaction went much deeper than what happened that night. He knew, with his previous record, he’d already proven himself to be everything you thought he was.” Bridget’s voice had dropped to a whisper, but Mark could still hear the tremor in her words. “But the thing is, he also knew that however much I cared about him, it didn’t matter how many times he was there for me, because you were the one I wanted.” She dropped her gaze and began idly twisting the ends of her napkin as she continued. “It wasn’t easy for me after we split. I’m not going to lie to you. You wouldn’t believe me if I did.” 

“No, I suspect not,” murmured Mark, clasping and unclasping his fingers as he resisted the urge to reach out and brush away the tears still sparkling on her lashes. “You’ve always been a terrible liar.” 

Bridget laughed shakily. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I’ve wondered sometimes how I’d feel seeing you again, if I’d have the courage to say all of this to you. I didn’t think I’d ever get over it, and I used to lie awake at night, wondering if I ever crossed your mind, but then gradually I stopped wondering. Wondering wasn’t helping me move on, and I had to move on, and so did you. I’m glad for you, by the way. Really. Just because things ended badly for us, it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be happy.” 

“It’s kind of you to say so.” 

“No,” she protested. “I mean it. Really. How long have you been married?” 

Mark hesitated. She might think, if he told her, that he was looking for sympathy. She might think he wanted her back, which he did. She might think he was still in love with her, which he was. What was the point in concealing the truth? He had nothing to lose. He’d already lost everything once; what was left? 

“I’m not, actually.” 

Bridget frowned. “Not what?” 

“Not married. I mean, I am, but we’re getting a divorce.” 

“Oh, Mark.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. When she didn’t let go, he simply allowed his hand to rest in hers, the warm weight of her touch bringing a rising prickle of tears to the back of his throat. “I’m really sorry,” she murmured. “What happened?” Briefly, Mark gave her a synopsis of his relationship with Camilla from inception to conclusion, ending with his decision to return home. 

“that’s why she’s in London,” he explained. “It was far easier, less complicated, to move forward with divorce proceedings here, and now she’s returning to the Hague, I’m staying, and that’s an end of it.” 

Bridget lifted a brow. “You don’t sound terribly upset about it.” 

He shrugged. “It’s for the best, really. Things just. . . didn’t work out as planned. Even if I hadn’t decided to come back to London, I wonder now whether it would have lasted.” 

“But she came to the memorial with you,” said Bridget, still frowning slightly. 

“She was just being supportive.” 

“Hmm.” Bridget tapped her fingers on the edge of her wine glass. “I have no idea why this just popped into my mind, but I wonder what Daniel would have thought of her.” 

“It’s a terrible thing to say, but I think it’s almost fortunate that we’ll never know. I’ve had too much experience with what happens when I let Daniel Cleaver get too close to my wife.” 

Bridget laughed softly; then her eyes filled with tears again. “I’m really going to miss him,” she whispered. 

“I know.” After a moment’s hesitation, Mark reached for her hand again, gently pressing it between both of his. 

“God, I’m sorry,” she said, rummaging in her handbag and withdrawing a wad of tissues. “This probably wasn’t the way you expected to spend the evening.” 

“I imagine it’s been a difficult few days,” he replied. “It’s perfectly understandable, although I apologize if I’ve made things worse.” 

“no, no, of course not.” She gave his hand a quick pat. “listen, um, would you excuse me for just a minute? I just, um, need to pop into the loos. I won’t be a moment.” Mark watched as she snatched up her handbag and hurried away; then lowered his head into his hands, massaging his temples as he wondered how to salvage what was left of the evening. If he had any hope of resurrecting their relationship, working to create a slightly less funerial atmosphere would likely go a long way toward achieving that goal. By the time Bridget returned, he’d settled their bill and retrieved her jacket. 

“Shit, I’m really sorry, Mark. I didn’t mean to spoil everything. We could have had a perfectly lovely evening if--” 

“Bridget, stop apologizing.” Mark laid a finger over her lips before helping her on with her jacket. 

“But what about--” 

“Everything’s taken care of.” 

She frowned. “I’m not helpless, you know.” 

“I’m aware of that, but you could, I think, do with a bit of help in this precise moment.” Placing a hand on the small of her back, he guided her outside and onto the pavement. 

“Well,” said Bridget, “I should be going.” She considered him for a moment; then leaned in to peck his cheek. “It was really lovely seeing you again. I mean it.” 

“Right, um. . .” Mark swallowed, wishing fleetingly for another scotch. “Bridget, listen, there’s. . . something I need to say.” 

She peered up at him curiously. “What?” 

“It’s about the thing you were wondering earlier.” 

“Hmm.” Her lips twitched at the corners. “Well, let’s see; there are any number of ‘things’.” 

“About whether I thought of you sometimes, after we split,” he clarified. “The answer is no.” 

“Oh.” Bridget blushed, lowering her eyes. “Of course; I didn’t think you had. I just wondered and—well, it was stupid.” 

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. It’s only—Christ, why do I always have to be so bloody inarticulate?” He heaved an exasperated sigh. “Look, the thing is, what I’m trying to say is that, um, you can’t really think of someone occasionally when that person. . .” 

“Yes?” 

“When that person is always on your mind.” 

“Oh.” Bridget’s blush deepened. 

“So I just, um, wanted to say that.” 

“Right.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “Good. Great. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” They stood silently facing each other for several moments, hurriedly glancing away when their eyes met. 

“So,” Bridget said finally. 

“So,” echoed Mark. 

“So you. . . thought of me?” 

“Yes,” he whispered. 

“all the time?” 

“Constantly.” 

She frowned. “Even during sex with Camilla?” 

“Well, I suppose you could say there was the occasional, um, lapse in concentration, but generally speaking, if I thought of anything, if I thought of anyone, it was you, Bridget. Always, always you.” 

“I see.” She glanced down, nervously twisting her fingers together. 

“And there’s something else,” said Mark. “It’s been on my mind since we ran into each other at Daniel’s memorial, actually, but the right opportunity to bring it up never quite presented itself.” 

“Well,” she said, “now is as good a time as any.” 

“yes, so I thought I might—that is, I wondered if you’d allow me to. . .” She was gazing up at him now, eyes wide and still shining with unshed tears. 

“to what?” she prompted. He lifted a hand, tracing the curve of her cheek with his thumb. Her lips parted as she drew in a breath of surprise, but when she didn’t pull away, he lifted her chin and gently laid his mouth on hers. 

“To kiss you goodbye,” he said as he drew back. His heart seemed to stand still as she stared at him for several moments; then suddenly she was in his arms, and the gulf of five years that had stretched between them dissolved as she returned his kiss. Closing her eyes, she rested her head against his chest, and he slid his palm along the curve of her side until he found that familiar hollow in the small of her back that seemed just made for his hand. When he pressed his fingers into the space, she raised her head, her eyes seeking his. 

“Nice boys don’t kiss goodbye like that,” she said, giving him a teasing peck on the lips. 

“Actually, that leads me to another very important question I’ve been meaning to ask.” 

“Which is?” 

He cupped her cheek in his hand. “Will you allow me to see you home, Miss Jones?” 

She traced a fingertip along the line of his jaw as she considered the question. “I think it would be unforgivably rude if you didn’t, Mr Darcy.” 

“Right.” 

Arriving in Bridget’s flat, Mark made a daring but catastrophic endeavor to scoop Bridget into his arms and kick the door closed in one swift motion, resulting inevitably in them both losing their balance and tumbling to the carpet in a confused tangle of limbs and nervous giggles. Before he could attempt to stand, she rolled on top of him and locked her mouth on his. Urgency, he realized, as she began unbuttoning his shirt, demanded that they forgo relocating to the more comfortable quarters of the bedroom. 

Hours later, Mark woke in the dimly lit room and smiled down at Bridget curled in the crook of his arm. Trying not to wake her, he gently shifted her weight to cradle her more snugly against him, burying his face in her hair. 

He wasn’t aware of having spoken, but suddenly she lifted her head and whispered, “I missed you too.” 

Throat tight, he reached for her hand. “Bridget, I’ve never stopped loving you; you know that, but losing you taught me a hard lesson about the difference between being in love with a person and choosing to love a person. Losing you was the consequence of my choices, and whatever happens between us moving forward, I want you to know that whatever choice you make, choose what you want, what feels right, not what you think you’re supposed to want, even if—even if that means I’m not your choice.” 

“Hmm.” Bridget propped herself on one elbow. “well, since you’re leaving it up to me, I’ll tell you what I choose.” As she leaned in to kiss him, running her hands down the thatch of hair on his chest and signaling her intention to take full advantage of being wide awake, Mark thought he could live with her decision for the rest of his life. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated! Feel free to follow/tweet me @eggsbenni221!


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